That Poem For Tony
Dancing really hard in Cartagena, say. When I wake
in the morning, a knife in my forehead, with low
Low eyes like clouds over tableland and the expression
Of a benevolent donkey, I check the dictionary.
It means a book instead of a flowerpot. What a surprise!
Offering tortilla espanola and refuge from sunshine,
The old lady owner of the local, a long black cigarette
tangled in her bony fingers. There are certain persons
Who understand -nada- she says. Ni nada. I think:
I've gone dancing in Cartagena. As a girl, bored
Durng Minnesota summers, I stuffed bags in other bags,
I filled things up. Monolingual, flat-chested, with no ideas
About the weather. I can't tell you how much
I've developed since then. She drums her fingers, while
Her cigarette smokes like a signal fire. The bar fills up
With those little puffs, signifying nothing, white noise
And white noise, a strange weather with no wind
Behind it. The beat of those fingers reminds me of --
Nada. Ni nada. I'm illiterate today. So pleased.
I've been dancing. I've really come a long way.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
